The house never slept, but it did know how to hold its breath.
Nitron Vale's summons brought Elma into the west atrium, a room built like intimidation: vaulted ceiling, stained glass too old to question, carpets thick enough to bury sound. The donors' laughter from the salons didn't reach here. This was where questions came to die.
Nitron stood near the stained glass, light turning him into geometry—sharp lines, no mercy. Kade lingered at his shoulder, silent, silver eyes unreadable.
"Elma," Nitron said, low, precise. "Two donors reversed their alliances in less than a day. Do you expect me to believe coincidence?"
Elma's pulse beat hard against the leash. "Maybe they're just finally learning where strength actually sits."
Nitron's gaze narrowed. "Careful."
Kade's head tilted, studying her like she was a chess piece someone might promote or burn. "The timing is… unusual."
"It's effective," Elma said, lips twisting. "Your seat looks sturdier than ever. You should be thanking me."
The leash hissed at her insolence. Pain threaded her collarbone. She refused to wince.
Nitron stepped closer. "Strength is not built on miracles. It is built on loyalty. If you are cultivating anything else, you will not like the price."
Elma smirked through the ache. "Then maybe you should raise the wage."
For the first time, Kade's mouth twitched. Nitron's didn't. His hand lifted, palm grazing the air above her throat—no touch, but the leash reacted anyway, searing. Her knees almost bent.
"You are mine," he said simply. "Every victory, every gasp, every drop of blood. Do not confuse rebellion for freedom."
The leash burned, then cooled. Elma's smirk held, but her insides screamed.
He turned away as if dismissing her was the real punishment. "Leave."
Elma didn't bow. She left with her spine unbroken but her chest raw.
She didn't return to her chamber. She found Calista instead.
The wife was in the library, mask-perfect, posture exact, draped in midnight silk. Courtiers had scattered at her wave, leaving only silence and the weight of polished shelves.
Elma closed the door behind her. Seven meters burned them both.
"He suspects," Elma said.
Calista didn't turn. "He always suspects. He simply lacks proof."
"Then we need to move faster," Elma said. Her voice was low, dangerous. "We have two donors. One more, and the council tips."
Calista's hands tightened around the book she wasn't reading. "And when it tips? Do you think he'll sit quietly and let it? He will burn the whole board first."
"Then we stop playing board games," Elma snapped.
The leash punished her, a hot spike through her lungs. She choked but forced the words out anyway. "We build something else. With you at the top."
That got Calista's attention. She turned, mask cracking just enough to show the fear beneath the frost. "You're asking me to become him."
"No," Elma said, stepping close enough for her body to beg against the protocol. "I'm asking you to become worse. Better. A queen who doesn't need a leash to prove she owns the room."
Calista's lips trembled between scorn and hunger. "And what if I fail?"
"Then I'll bleed with you," Elma said.
The system purred at the defiance, but didn't strike. Not yet.
For the first time, Calista let the book fall. Her hand lifted halfway toward Elma's face before she stopped herself. The ache flared. They both gasped, as if the house itself fed on their restraint.
"One week," Calista whispered. "One week we keep the masks on. Then…"
Her eyes burned, no longer cold. "…then we tear them off."
The third donor arrived the next night.
Lord Adrien Rauth, House Thorn's golden son, smiling like betrayal in a suit. His presence in Vale territory was a calculated insult.
Elma met him in the south lounge. Candles threw heatless flame across velvet chairs, and the leash sang sharp in her chest the second their eyes met. This wasn't a client. This was a test wrapped in silk.
"You're braver than your father," Elma said, pouring him a drink without asking.
Adrien's grin cut wide. "You're prettier than your leash."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Prettier, sharper, harder to cut. Pick one."
He laughed, sipping. "They say you bleed for the wife. They say you fight for anyone but him."
"They say a lot of things," Elma said. "Funny how none of them ever leave the room alive."
His grin faltered just slightly. He leaned back, studying her. "You think you can turn me?"
"I think you already want to be turned," Elma said. "Why else come here alone?"
The leash burned at her throat. Nitron's suspicion in the system's bones. She rode it, smiled through it, let Adrien see teeth.
She reached across the table, "accidentally" brushing his hand with hers. The shard hidden in her sleeve pulsed once. Adrien stiffened.
Threads flashed in her sight—contracts coiled around his wrists, tied to his father, tied to the Thorn name. They glowed red and cruel.
Elma's breath hitched. This wasn't a leash. This was a cage.
Adrien's grin was gone now. "What did you do?"
"Showed you how trapped you are," Elma said softly.
He stared at her, jaw tight. Then he whispered, almost against his will: "Help me."
Elma smiled. Victory tasted like smoke and pain.
[Quest Complete: Subvert 3 Donors]
Council Swing Secured.
Rumor Meter: 74%.
New Flag: Thorn Compromise.
Later, when the lounge emptied and the shard cooled, Elma found Calista again. They didn't touch. They didn't need to.
"We have the three," Elma said.
Calista's lips curved, small, dangerous. "Then the week begins."
And for the first time, Elma believed it: the Vale house wasn't Nitron's anymore. It was theirs.